


Warmth

by Hyena_Poison



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyena_Poison/pseuds/Hyena_Poison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse and Walter end up in the cabin together, happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Filled for a [Kinkmeme](http://brbakinkmeme.livejournal.com/521.html?thread=136457#t136457/) prompt.

It had been easy to find their compound, and even easier to find the M60. They were stupid, careless and soft in their pride—the nazi bastards thought they were on top, that nothing could touch them. Walt caught them drinking, too busy playing cards to watch the security camera; the machine gun jarred his shoulders, and Walt staggered back into the wall. His ears rung as he checked each man, stared at Todd’s blood-freckled face and felt nothing.

He was looking for the barrels, but found Jesse instead—Jesse who was supposed to be dead, who was dirty and beaten and something so beyond lost. Walt let him out, turned to leave; he had things to finish, people to educate.

Jesse followed, yelling for him to wait, stop; he stumbled, toppling into the dirt. He kept yelling, asking where Walt was going, what he was going to do. Walt said he had to talk to Elliot and Gretchen, that they had things to clear up.

“I know where the barrels are!” Walt stopped and faced Jesse, still kneeling in the gravel. “We can, we can take the money! We can leave!” He pleaded.

Walt stared at him, cold, like he could see right through him, turned to leave. Jesse yelled after him, voice hoarse and cracked, “I, I don’t—there’s no one left. There’s no one!” Walt looked at him again, watched a tear track through the grim on his face. “They killed her. Andrea’s dead,” Jesse’s voice is small and quiet, “and Brock’s—they said they wouldn’t, but…”

Jesse fixed him with eyes both hopeless and hopeful, “You’re the only one left, Mr. White. You’re the only one.” And he crumpled, sobbing and calling the names of dead people.

Walt didn’t leave. 

\---------

It’s cold in the cabin, even with the fire cranking out heat. Walt sits at the little table, watches the snow fall and blows on his tea. The radio plays bits of music cut with static, snippets of news and white noise; even then, it’s quiet, quiet all the time like the whole world is dead around him. Stillness, Walt feels it settle over him like he has not in years.

Walt starts washing his mug when the cabin door creaks inward, cold air eating away the heat. He turns to watch Jesse shrug the over-packed backpack onto the kitchen table, listens to him complain about the cold. Jesse’s nose and cheeks are red under his knitted cap—ridiculous with a ball on top and at the end of the earflaps. He starts shedding layers wet with snow, an oversized jacket, scarf, gloves and boots are tossed at random as Jesse makes his way to the stove.

“Cold as fuck, out there!” Jesse hisses, holding his hands toward the fire. “How can people live here?”

Walt snorts, sets the cup down and walks over to stand with him; he rubs Jesse’s neck, tug off the knit cap. The kid’s hair is longer, and sticks out in every direction; Walt uses his fingers to smooth it, smiling as Jesse relaxes into the touch.

He groans, “It couldn’t have been, I don’t know, Florida or something? Like, somewhere not in the Arctic Circle?”

“I’m sure you would find something to complain about there, too,” Walt’s rubbing his neck again, and Jesse’s eyes slip close, leaning into the contact.

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I heard like, a bear or something on the way back.” Walt starts to tell him that there are no bears in New Hampshire, and realizes that there probably are, especially in the mountains. He thinks maybe it’s time to look for a car.

Sighing, Jesse pulls away to unpack their supplies: canned food, mostly, some bread and more peanut butter, all go neatly into cabinets. He hangs the empty pack near the door; at Walt’s pointed look, he rolls his eyes and collects his discarded outerwear. Jesse mumbles something about Cinderella under his breath as he shakes some of the snow off his coat.

Slumping onto the twin mattress, Jesse watches Walt pull out a pot, a can of soup, “I could do that once in a while, you know.”

A raised eyebrow and an accusing look over his shoulder, “I can’t stand the smoke, Jesse, and it’s too cold to have a window open.” Jesse grumbles at him some more.

They eat on the bed, shoulders touching, and talk about what’s happening in town. It’s dark by the time they’re finished, and Walt is picking over the newspapers Jesse brought. There is no news, no developments, but Walt doesn’t say this to Jesse. They don’t talk about it, what happened before they rode in a gas tanker into the wilderness. They had tried, in the first few weeks, but it was a sore and aching mess that neither wanted to scrape at.

Walt shifts a dozing Jesse off his shoulder, despite a weak protest, stacks a few more logs into the stove and changes into sweatpants. He climbs over Jesse onto the narrow bed, lifting the blankets so they can shimmy under them. Walt props himself up on an elbow, continues to read in the fire’s glow; Jesse shifts closer, pressing his forehead against Walt’s chest, drops an arm over his waist. The kid fumbles out a ‘night’ and his breathing deepens, evens out into sleep.

The wind tugs at the cabin, the snow falls, and Walt finishes the paper, folds it and sets it aside. He tucks an arm over Jesse, pulls him closer, touches his sleep-flushed cheek. Walt falls asleep to the sound of nothing and peaceful breathing.


End file.
